Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
My eyes are watering. My throat’s wrecked. I’ve never been so turned on in my entire fucking life.
“You wanted to ruin me,” he says. “Back then. That night in the dress. The Christmas party. You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”
He drags out slowly and lets me breathe.
“And now?” he says, crouching in front of me. His thumb traces my wet lips, glossy with spit and heat and him. “Now you’re mine. You hear me?”
I nod, dizzy and drunk on it.
He leans in, his mouth brushing mine.
“You take me so well, sweetheart. So fucking sweet.”
Then he stands and pulls me up by the wrists. The ribbon pulls taut. My arms stretch high above my head, bound.
He walks me backward until I hit the log beam. It’s cold against my spine.
His mouth is on my neck now. My collarbone. My breasts. He kisses them like he owns them, bites them like he’s proving it.
One hand slides between my thighs. “So wet,” he growls. “From just sucking me off. Jesus fucking Christ, Emma.”
I nod, breathless. I’m straining against the ribbon, wanting more. Wanting him.
“You want me to fuck you like this?” he asks, his voice lethal and low. “Tied up. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
He smiles then. Dark. Dangerous.
“Merry fuckin’ Christmas.”
He turns me around, pulls my hips back, and takes me, still tied up, the glow of the Christmas lights dancing over our fused bodies.
The fire's gone low, and so has the music.
Owen’s in the bedroom, reading something on his phone. And I should just lie here and let the heat soak in. Let what just happened settle in my bones.
But something’s buzzing. A sound… a light. It’s his laptop that’s still on the table. It’s not locked now… just cracked open and glowing faintly.
I don’t mean to go to it, but I do.
With my bare feet on cold wood, the air prickles over my skin. My wrists are still faintly raw from the ribbon, the memory of him holding me there like a prayer.
I sit down and open the screen. Then I type it in: One, two, three, four. I’m greeted with boring wallpaper.
But on the top left of the screen is a folder, untitled. Last accessed two days ago.
Hands trembling, I click it, and the blood drains from my face.
Emma_Marlowe
That’s the name of the folder.
And inside? Dozens of screenshots. My socials, even the one I made private when I moved.
Emails I forgot I sent. Ones I never sent at all, still in draft. Shopping carts, coupons I saved, and bookmarked webpages. Books I wrote and never published. He has them.
A map with pins dropped. My college campus, my first apartment, the flower shop I worked at for six months after the accident, until I left because Jake made me.
My landlord’s phone number.
My grocery store receipts.
Pictures of me: some from high school, some from last year. Some I don’t remember being taken.
My hands start to shake.
He’s been watching me.
Not just this week. Not just since I got here.
For years.
I scroll faster, breathing shallow now. One tab is still open in his browser to an encrypted site with no logo, just numbers and names.
McCarthy Crew
I know that name, the infamous McCarthys of Ballyhock, Ireland.
And my name again, Emma Marlowe, next to Owen’s. There’s a red flag next to it: “CONFLICT OF INTEREST.”
I stare, blinking.
Another note below: “ASSIGNMENT: DELAYED. OBSERVATION CONTINUES. TARGET’S LOCATION SECURE.”
Target.
I’m a… target? Conflict of interest?
Why? Why would some barely known author be a conflict of interest with someone who works for the Irish mob?
My vision tilts. I slam the laptop shut.
But it’s too late because he’s there, in the doorway, his eyes locked on me—unmoving, unblinking, just watching.
“See anything, love?” he asks. His voice is flat, quiet. Too quiet, like he already knows the answer.
I stand slowly. “You told me I could.” My voice is barely there. “And if you want top security, Owen, you probably need a better password than one, two, three, four.”
“Yeah, I know.”
His hands are in his pockets like he’s holding something back.
I swallow hard. “I saw… everything.”
A long beat.
“I can explain,” he says.
My breath catches. “Don’t.”
“You need to hear it.”
“Owen, Jesus—what is this? Are you in the mafia? Were you assigned to me? Is that what this is?”
“No,” he says. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I chose you.”
My heart stutters.
“You don’t choose people like that. You don’t… track them. You don’t log receipts, or GPS their apartments, or—”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he interrupts, stepping forward. “You don’t know who you were mixed up with. You don’t know the fucking danger you were in. You think Jake was just some asshole ex-husband?”
Wait, what?
I blink.
“The McCarthy family,” he says. “They’re not just thugs. They wanted leverage. You were leverage.”
“And you were what?” I whisper. “My protector? My stalker?”